


It was a Thursday

by Mylesime



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Broken Will, Dark, Disturbing Content, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mentionned Will/Mike, One-Sided Relationship, One-Sided Will Byers/Mike Wheeler, Prostitution, Troy's POV, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 04:12:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17418881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mylesime/pseuds/Mylesime
Summary: "I know where you are when you're not here with me. Trapping another soul in your web of silver. In your pretty lies and fake whispers. You're just so good at it. It's almost indecent. It kills me a little. Hurts me deep like a needle in a vein. Especially when they don't treat you well. I know what you let them do to you. Saw my friends play with you like a doll and it made me sick. It was horrible to watch. And you didn't say anything. You just let them. Like a game you pretend you can’t control. But you do. You control everything. You pull every string. "Companion fic to my other story Puppet Show.





	It was a Thursday

**Author's Note:**

> Hell there!  
> Just a little something that goes with my other story "Puppet Show".
> 
> It's from Troy's POV on Will and their relationship.
> 
> Highly advised to read the other story first.
> 
> WARNING: EXTREMELY dark content, language, situations.

I watch you belt up back your jeans with the same disinterest you always show afterwards. You don't look at me. You never look at me when we're done. You did your part. The pretense is over.

I look at you. Look at the way you tuck your shirt in those black jeans that make me quiver. At the way you comb your hair with your hand, waggling your hips and shoulders as if shaking off the memory of me from your skin. I shiver, rack my eyes over your body with longing and despair, still dazed and famished.

You push the bills I handed you in the pocket of your jeans with a courteous nod. It’s always a strange moment, a wakening that breaks the illusion I plastered on my heart. It reminds me that you were not really here with me. That I made this love alone which isn’t love to you. Just business. Fifty bucks for a piece of your time, for indulging me.

You shake your head again to force your hair in place. My eyes fall on your lips. I wish I could kiss you. I wish you'd let me. But kissing is for lovers and I’m not a lover, only a lovestruck fool with poisoned emergencies.

What are you thinking right now? What is happening in this impenetrable head of yours? Do you feel good? Tainted? Did I hurt you in spite of my efforts? I tried to be gentle, make it pleasant for you. I don't want to hurt you. I just want to be close, hold you, touch you. Pretend.

You make it beautiful even when it's dirty.

You graced me with a few moans today, soft but oh so lovely. Those are the small moments I cherish most. When you offer me a smile or a gasp, when I feel you tighten around me and explode. I would give a million dollars if only to see that expression of rapture in your eyes forever, feel your skin under my palms, your neck against my lips, your sex pressed against my stomach.

You don't get hard a lot. It used to make me sad and anxious, ugly as a thief. The flaccid, dormant appendage a painful reminder of your unwillingness. Sometimes, it swells under my touch and I wish I could adore it like I adore the rest of you. I wish I could eat you. Drink you. Consume the whole of you. I wish you’d let me. I wish it were allowed.

My hand falls flat along my hip.

“See you on Thursday,” you say with the smug detachment of a drug dealer.

Which isn't that far from reality, really. You're my own brand of heroin, your body, your smell, your voice. I'm addicted to all that is you. And I watch you leave, feeling the familiar pulsing emptiness crawl around my heart. The door clicks behind you. My heart heaves in my chest. I want to cry. I want to die, letting my face fall in the pillow, inhaling what's left of you like a line of cocaine.

Thursday seems so far.

 

I know where you are when you're not here with me. Trapping another soul in your web of silver. In your pretty lies and fake whispers. You're just so good at it. It's almost indecent. It kills me a little. Hurts me deep like a needle in a vein. Especially when they don't treat you well. I know what you let them do to you. Saw my friends play with you like a doll and it made me sick. It was horrible to watch. And you didn't say anything. You just let them. Like a game you pretend you can’t control. But you do. You control everything. You pull every string.

I know you don't need the money. Most guys fuck you for free. I don't pay you for the sex. I pay you for the distance. I pay you for denial. I thought it'd make it easier, would force the hierarchy between us. Whore and client. But I'm a slave and you're a shadow. And unlike Peter Pan, I can't saw you on my shoes.

I wanted to hate you, you know, wanted to hurt you. I wanted to make you pay for my obsession, for making me feel this way about another boy. I tried to hate you, tried to convince myself that slipping into you like that was gross and wrong. But nothing had never felt more right and beautiful.

The first time you stayed the night, it was because of a bad snow storm. You wanted to go home but I convinced you to stay. We had dinner together. You didn't want to eat, finding it too intimate but the smell of food won you over and we shared the pasta I cooked for us. For you.

It was a bit awkward but I was so happy to have you with me, eating dinner in my kitchen, bare chested, hair a mess. Still smelling like the sex we just had.

It made me want to call you Honey, ruffle your bronze coloured hair playfully, steal a bite from your plate, reach forward and kiss you. I didn't do any of those and I let you eat in silence, watching the snowfall and cover in white all that wasn’t here with us. I listened to you take a shower in my bathroom, watched you slide into my bed as I took the couch not to embarrass you.

I spent the night watching you sleep. You looked so peaceful, so beautiful. I rose from the couch, tucked you back in to keep you warm, stroke your hair. You wrinkled your nose against the pillow, a thin layer of saliva escaping your parted lips. It made me chuckle. You were so cute. I ghosted my lips over your shoulder, inhaling its softness and the smell of sleep, wishing you had stayed with me forever like this.

I saw a cute porcelain sculpture of an elf boy playing the flute in a shop. It reminded me of you. I wanted to gift it to you for Christmas. I didn't buy it though. I know you'd probably refuse it anyway. You hate gifts or delicate attentions. If I gave you the Moon Will, would you love me? Would you look at me? Would you see? Would you let me pet name you?

Wheeler didn't have to do anything to earn your love. God, I hate that idiot. He doesn't even realize what he has. I would damn my soul to have you look at me like you look at him. If only once.

He's not like you. He doesn't like boys. I thought he would. I was wrong. But you're still madly in love with him and everybody knows, even him. It shows in the little looks of pity he casts your way, in his false apologetic smiles. I'm sure you'd give yourself to him for real. You'd be here. You'd join in the love. I wonder if Wheeler would treat you right. Would you let him play with you? Would you even care?

 

You called me today. It was the middle of the night. I found you in one of those parties you always go. You’re not ok. You’re cold, drunk. Lost too. You hurried inside my car as soon as I parked up, your bottom lip shaking.

“Thanks for coming,” you say.

“No problem. What happened?”

You shrug, “Nothing much. I was just bored.”

I don't press the matter. You hate talking anyway. I drive you home in silence.

“Thanks Troy,” you say again, uttering my name in one of those rare times.

I love hearing it from your lips. It sounds like water falling on moss. I don’t usually like my name. But you make it sound pretty, just like everything you do. What kind of demon are you? Are you even human?

“Is there anything you want in return?” you ask.

It’s always like that with you. Nothing can be free, no matter the side. I want your love, but it doesn’t work like that. It would be too easy.

“Can I have a kiss?” I ask, a bit shy.

I shouldn’t have asked for anything. It was no problem fetching you. I didn’t do it to have you in my debt. But I’m desperate and you’re feeding my delusions.

“Just a kiss?” you mock me gently.

“Yeah, just a kiss.”

You look surprised. What did you expect? That I’d ask for something creepy? Sorry to disappoint. I’m not a creep, just a lovelorn fool. You bend toward me. I meet you halfway and we’re kissing for the very first time. It’s soft, slow. Kind of beautiful and sweet. It makes my heart sing. It makes it bleed a little too. You taste like alcohol and other things I don’t really want to know. I’m just so happy to kiss you right now that I don’t really care.

We part. You smile coyly at me, playing your game you know so well. I swallow, feeling sad and stupid. Robbed too. Of myself, my pride, my hopes. You open the door of the car and I watch you leave, disappearing in the quiet house without a glance back, my lips still tingling from your touch.

 

You have a knack for pain and darkness. You thrive on the horror, on all sorts of kinks I don’t share. I don’t know why, but you seem to always come back to me when you indulged too much. You could go to your Wheeler or Henderson but you don’t. You come to me instead. You knock on my window, broken and bleeding and you come to me, saying my name. It moves me a little. Do I matter to you? If only a bit?

The guy who fucked you was a real brute this time. Tore you up good. It makes me sick but you seem to enjoy the pain and I taste your blood on my tongue as I sink it into you. It’s the first time I’m rough with you, the first time I lose this much hope. But it gets so intimate, it makes me want to die in you, evaporate as I come in that mess of sweat, semen and blood, listening to your heart, traveling inside your head.

I still don’t understand how you think but I’m slowly getting there.

When you tell me you gave head to Wheeler, I feel nothing but cold jealousy and longing. I can only imagine how willing you were, giving pleasure to the one boy you love. When you tell me he didn’t pleasure you back and rejected you, all I feel is anger and pain. You love your Mike so much, it must have been awfully frustrating for you not being touched back. I don’t understand why Mike didn’t do it. You’re so cute. All of you. I want to snuggle you up against me, keep you close. When I beg for a piece of you, I’m almost certain you’ll refuse. I want to give you all those first pleasures you denied yourself. I’m not Wheeler and I’m not as skilled as you but I want to make you feel good.

Surprisingly enough, you let me. I slowly undress you and trail down to taste your essence for the very first time. You’re shy and sweet and adorable and as I see the blush cover your cute little cheeks, I can’t help but feel sorry for Wheeler. The idiot truly doesn’t know what he’s rejected.

You take it so well, lean into me in that small shelter of yours, still naked and flushed against my skin. The sun is slowly setting and you smell like summer breeze.

 

Your behavior gradually changes. We see each other more. You smile at me at school, let your hand brush against mine. It makes my heart sing in bliss. Even our moments are different. You kiss me, coy and playful, and we take our time, mapping each other’s bodies on Thursdays and every day of the week. You refuse the bills I hand you. You don’t want me to pay anymore. It’s like you want to say something but you can’t find the word. I take you to the movies, we have pizza, I watch you laugh and I think I understand.

Little by little, I unveil the secrets of your body.

I learn that your neck is very sensitive. It makes you all soft and relaxed. You like it when I pet your hair too and nibble your shoulder. When I bite you on the collarbone, it usually makes you scream and your cock twitch. It’s cute. I love it when you moan like that. You’re so fucking hot and adorable, I wanna eat you up. You like kisses and when I rub your back and shoulders. You love being touched with the tips of my fingers. It makes you mew and chuckle in my mouth. You love it when I tickle you with my tongue, sinking it gently all the way in. It makes you lose it and open up for me with an eagerness that makes me go faint.

Blowjobs get you shy however and when I go down on you, you blush, keep repeating that I really don’t have to do it, try to escape a little. If only you knew how much I don’t mind, my love. I absolutely adore giving you pleasure like that, love it when I feel you hard and warm and pulsing in my mouth, leaving your gift in the back of my throat.

What baffles me, is how you love gentleness in spite of your claims to enjoy being manhandled. You don’t. It’s all pretense. When you trust someone, if they get rough with you, you hide back behind your shell and put on your cold iron mask. Wheeler doesn’t know that side of you. Your clients don’t either. I’m not a client. Not anymore. I’m the guy who shares your demons and your joys, your fears and your dreams, who vibrates for every part of you and every part of me. I rejoice in your laugh, drown in your tears.

 

We’re almost dating. Almost. There’s a ghost between us, a shadow. It’s not just Wheeler. It’s your job that you haven’t quitted. I know you like your job but I hate it. I hate knowing that you’re being touched and enjoyed by others. I want to ignore it, want to accept it. I could. Theoretically. But the practice is vastly different. When you come back to me, still smelling like them, telling me what they did, what they asked, laughing. It makes me miserable, a bit dirty too. Like this one time I arranged a special night for our anniversary and you never showed, going to a “cumshot party” instead, coming home drunk and leaking, telling me all about it with big, nonsensical gestures, taking a bite from the cold food I had prepared for the occasion. Passing out on the bed without remembering, the six hundred bucks falling from your pocket.

The worst is when I need to take you to the hospital. When I have to endure their grimaces and stare as they all believed I’m the one who used your rectum as an ashtray. I don’t tell them the truth. They treat you horribly if I do. I just stay there, holding your hand as they removed the stuck cigarettes from your burned channel. I didn’t even know things like this were possible. I didn’t even know people could be so sick. So I just hold your hand and you smile at me, grateful for my presence and I want to be mad but I can’t. Not when you look at me with such soft eyes. I remove a bang from your forehead, smile back a little, ask if you’re ok.

The irony is that we don’t even have that much sex together anymore. As time passes, you keep away from my touch, avoid me, engulfing yourself in your darkness I can’t reach.

 

We don’t really break up. I just let you go. I had to let you go before you pulled me down with you. I had to let you go if I wanted to keep my head above the water. You didn’t need me to drown.

But when my phone rings on that fated Thursday, forcing me to take the first flight from Lincoln, Nebraska, only to find you on that cold hospital bed, your beauty ravaged by this monster we can’t fight, I can’t help but think that I should have tried longer, should have tried harder even when you let your hand slip from mine.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think :)


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